by Erin Marie

“Ashes and Wine” by A Fine Frenzy

Every person who told me I would never sleep again…they weren’t totally right.

He is almost never the problem.

When he is, yes, it’s horribly annoying and irritating. Because then, I’m actually exhausted and ready for sleep. However, I can count the instances on one hand in the past six months of his life when he was actually the cause of my sleeplessness.

Tonight, it’s me. It’s my brain, my heart, and their struggle with some fear or restlessness that holds my delicious sleep ransom. It will cost me the morning at work. I care very little about this. I just want to sleep…

Instead, I turn side to side, swimming laps beneath the covers, all the music of the day swimming around with me, the notes peacefully disturbing, a perfect haunt. There is always a melody and a message singing in my head. Right now, it’s about bravery.

Do I have the courage to make my art without expectation of any other reward or return other than love? Do I have the courage to consider this gift more than just a hobby even if I never earn a dime from it, gain a fan from it, even if no one else hears it but me? I am truly my own worst critic. I silence all other judgment only with my own.

And it hurts. It almost hurts worse this way.

Sister Elizabeth treats inanimate objects, like her feelings, her stories, as if they were her dear friends. She teaches me to address them each as beings in their own right, with spiritual ears to receive messages and feelings of their own. It is easier to respect them this way and easier to respond, instead of react. Instead of immediately judging and then writing them off.

I have found fault with my own creations, when in truth, they have helped me and helped me immensely.

There are songs, beautiful, haunting melodies with equally beautiful imagery, sent to me from far off, that helped me learn my voice, my sound, my place, that helped me to trust who I am and to love that girl.

And I have all but abandoned them.

I don’t even think I ever said ‘thank you.’

It’s true, these songs are not mine anymore. They came to me in earnest, I crafted them each with great care, we mingled for a time, and now they are recorded relics. They should be preserved in a museum somewhere along with all my journals and other evidences that I have been loved well.

Forgive me, sweet songs. You were so good to me, and I am so grateful.

Maybe it’s time to go back and listen to everything that got me here, and listen with love.